


Don't

by golden_gardenias



Series: The Trust We Mapped Out in My Bed [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Allusions to Corrective Rape, Angst, M/M, So much angst, Stream of Consciousness, child abuse tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mouth is dry, pulse pounding.  This is too much, too similar, too familiar; he hears another version of himself distantly yelling "Get the fuck off him!", knows that he should probably repeat the phrase now, that he *would* repeat it if there wasn't cotton in his throat and the air hadn't been sucked out of his lungs.  The scene plays out in his head for the thousandth time, and he remembers with perfect clarity, knows that he'll never forget, that it's been permanently burned into his memory.  He watches himself attack in his mind's eye and feels his muscles tense to repeat the action, ready to spring, feels his fists clench and longs to swing, but his joints are locked into place and he's frozen.</p><p>He's frozen, and Ian is bleeding.</p><p>Ian is bleeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solely for You

**Author's Note:**

> this one's...i'm not even sure what this one is, but i'm kind of proud of it?? and idk, that hasn't really happened in a while, so i hope you like it, because i really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> also i kind of wrote a sex scene??????? it's my first one ever and i'm more nervous than a turkey on thanksgiving, so i'd really appreciate your thoughts/feedback on that section, if you please.
> 
> oh, and the scene described in the summary will be taking place in the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was brought to my attention that some of this content could be triggering, so i'm including this warning: mickey thinks back on the traumatic events of 3x06 and his reactions to them throughout this installment, but especially in the first and second paragraphs, so if you would rather skip them, feel free.

Mickey wakes up alone in Ian's bed, but it's not an altogether uncommon occurrence; he's always up at the ass crack of dawn to go running now, talking about how it makes him feel better, helps him forget the things Mickey has nightmares about.  They've gotten better lately, though--he no longer wakes up feeling like he needs to claw his skin off, doesn't rub furiously at his reddening eyes as the words  _She's gonna fuck the faggot outta you, kid_ roll around in his head, isn't nauseous over  _Ride him 'til he likes it_ and the way she smelled as she mounted him, the goddamn sickly sweet perfume or  _whatever_ it was burning into his nostrils and lingering on his pillows, choking him.  But there's still the cold sweat and the need to burrow in the sheets and blankets that smell like Ian's soap and Ian's detergent and Ian's sweat and _Ian_ , the nearly overwhelming urge to absorb it until the cloying fragrance that follows him everywhere is forced out of his head and no longer makes him remember the way she moaned and arched her back and smirked at him with dead eyes as she put her dress back on and casually lit and shared a cigarette with his father as he put his gun away and looked at him with something like approval in his eyes.

But sometimes sniffing the blankets conjures up Ian's face, makes him see the happy smile he'd given Mickey that morning as they ate breakfast and his panic as Terry advanced on him and the way he'd closed his eyes and turned away--

"Mickey?"

He jumps at the small voice, looking up to see the baby-- _Lucas? Liam? no, definitely Liam_ \--standing in his crib and watching him curiously. The boy lifts his arms expectantly, and Mickey hesitates before forcing himself out of his warm nest of blankets and shuffling across the room. "What?" he grumbles.

Liam makes grabby hands and stretches his arms out wider, the expression on his face something similar to what Ian looks like when he wants something but isn't sure how to ask for it.

Mickey awkwardly brings his hands up to grip the boy's sides, and Liam drops his arms onto Mickey's, looking abnormally patient as he waits for Mickey to figure out what he wants him to do.

When Liam smiles at him encouragingly, tapping his fingers lightly against his forearms, Mickey can't help but see more of Ian in him; the shape of his face and the knowing look in his eyes that shouldn't be in someone so young, the long limbs that he's already having trouble growing into, the small, nervous smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he has some secret he's bursting at the seams to tell.

Mickey gets to hear the secret once he finally lifts the toddler out of his crib, settling his weight in his arms as the boy wraps himself around Mickey as much as he can. "Bad dream," he says into his shoulder.  Mickey doesn't really know how to respond beyond awkwardly rubbing the kid's back in an attempt to comfort him, but then it occurs to him that Liam seems pretty chill for a child who just woke from a nightmare.

It registers that Liam isn't squeezing like he's scared; he's squeezing like he's trying to be steady, rubbing along Mickey's shoulder blade with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, mimicking Mickey's motions and pressing his face into the side of his neck to kiss him lightly, trying to imitate what his siblings have done for him, before pulling back.  "Better?" he asks.

The hope shining in his eyes brings a lump to Mickey's throat; he's seen that look before, too.

"Yeah," he croaks, clearing his throat, "Yeah, little man, I'm better."

A wide smile breaks across his face, pride replacing the hope.  "Yay!"  He drops another kiss to Mickey's cheek and claps his hands together happily.  "All better!"

Mickey laughs in spite of himself, which only encourages Liam further; soon they're both giggling for no reason while Liam scrunches Mickey's face into ridiculous expressions with his tiny hands and Mickey pretends to bite his fingers before soothing the imagined sting with a small kiss of his own.

"Ugh, will you shut up?  I'm still sleeping," Carl huffs from his bunk, flopping over to open a bleary eye and glare at them.

Mickey wants to bite a sharp retort at him, but he can see Ian in that expression, too, and it dies in his throat.  Liam whispers a soft "Sorry" to his brother, and Carl's expression softens before he turns over again.

He doesn't really know what the protocol is now, so he stands uncomfortably in the middle of the room, shifting his gaze from the toddler in his arms to the crib in the corner to the inviting swath of blankets waiting for him on Ian's bed.  Liam starts to squirm, so Mickey takes that as the signal to be let down and lowers him to the floor.  The boy grabs his hand immediately, leading Mickey out of the bedroom and down to the empty kitchen.  The clock on the microwave says 8:23, which is ridiculously early for a Saturday morning, but he knows he wouldn't have been able to go back to sleep anyway.

Liam lets go of him to pad over to a cabinet, opens it, and pulls out a pan.  He almost drops it trying to reach up to hand it to Mickey, but he scrambles forward to catch it before it can fall on the boy's head.  "Jesus, kid," he mutters, trying to ignore the residue of his split-second fear still fluttering in his chest.  But Liam just smiles up at him, as if nothing happened--which has him rolling his eyes fondly because really? Seeing this mini-Ian is really entertaining and disconcerting and terrifying all at once--and says simply, "Pancakes."  The "n" is barely pronounced, and for some reason Mickey remembers that Ian had a lisp when they played Little League together.

He shakes the wave of nostalgia off and raises his eyebrows.  "Pancakes," he deadpans.

Liam smiles toothily at him and claps again.  "Bana pancakes!"

"Banana?" Mickey corrects.

"Bana!" Liam insists.

In spite of himself, Mickey cracks a smile.  "God, you're a menace," he grumbles affectionately.  Liam smiles at him like Ian did from the other side of a glass divider in another lifetime, and his heart skips a beat.  He feels like it should worry him that a toddler sees through him so easily, wonders that maybe he's losing his touch or just simply isn't intimidating anymore, and then realizes that it's probably some annoying Gallagher thing.  Or maybe it's an Ian thing and the younger ones learned it from him, because Lip and Fiona certainly hadn't been this eager to dig under the dirt like their little brothers did; he still remembers Mandy bitching about the looks Fiona would give her whenever she slept over their house back when she was with Lip, remembers feeling his stomach drop and thinking to himself that he had another reason to keep Ian quiet about them.

"Mickey!" Liam calls impatiently, smacking the counter.

He's jarred out of his reverie again, looking up from under his eyelashes at the kid swinging his legs from the counter, embarrassed, and mentally cursing his foolishness for allowing himself to be chastised by a  _toddler._

"Alright, jesus.  I'm doin' the damn thing, okay?" he says irritably, resuming his gathering of the necessary ingredients and trying not to remember how he'd made this same thing with Ian the first morning they'd woken up together.  That was another lifetime, too, and he marvels at how distinctly his short life can be divided into so many Befores and Afters.

There used to be Before Mom and After Mom, a period he doesn't like the let himself think about, back when there was laughter and smiles and small bursts of happiness before everything turned grey and cold; Before Ian and After Ian, when the grey morphed into vivid reds and lush greens and blinding whites with each goofy smile and corny joke and warm hand curled around his shoulder or his wrist or his cock.

But all of it's gone now, faded into a broader Before that keeps him lodged in an After he aches to think about, an After where he's married to a prostitute with the guillotine of impending fatherhood looming over his head and lowering, lowering, lowering, at a painstakingly slow pace while his father smiles and rubs his hands together.

Liam lets out a long-suffering sigh that startles him again (and jesus, when did he get so fucking jumpy?), fixing him with an unamused stare that's too old for his young face.  "Alright, alright, quit yer gripin'," he grunts, trying to control the faint blush rising to his cheeks.

All of the ingredients are finally out, and Liam's eyes light up.  " _I_ do banas," he announced.

"Oh yeah?" Mickey challenges, grinning.  "And what if I wanna mash the bananas?  What then, tough guy?"

Liam only smiles at him in response, giggling a bit.  "I not tough!" he says, exasperated, as if it should be obvious that he's small and weak.

"You sure about that?  You're lookin' pretty ripped from where I'm standing."  Mickey pinches his bicep with the hand that's not whisking flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt into a mixing bowl, feeling his chest flutter at the chorus of giggles Liam lets out at the contact.  "You're gonna be real strong one day, kid; I can tell."

"Really?"  There's awe in his voice and wonder in his eyes that feels familiar, from way back in Before Mom when he believed the things his parents told him and smiled as he sat on the counter with Mandy to watch their mother make everyone breakfast on the weekends.

"Yeah," he says quietly.

Liam doesn't notice his sudden somberness, excitement flashing in his eyes at the prospect.  "Stronger than you?"

Mickey chuckles.  "Well, I don't know about all that..." He trails off playfully, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a soft voice continues.

"Yeah, Mickey's pretty strong, little guy," Ian says from across the room, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and a sad smile on his face.

Liam's hands dart out to steady Mickey's when he almost flings the bowl in his shock.  Ian's standing by the washing machine, a light sheen of sweat glistening along his forehead and shining on his bright red cheeks.  Mickey remembers the two of them being the only ones sunburned after a Little League practice because their families hadn't been able to afford sunscreen.

"Banana pancakes?" Ian asks nonchalantly, like he didn't just appear out of fucking nowhere and nearly make Mickey piss himself.  Like he doesn't remember Mickey ~~nervously~~ casually mentioning that his mom would make a special batch just for him on his birthday.

"Mhm!" Liam nods happily.  "I do banas.  See?"  He presents his brother with a bowl of semi-mashed bananas, chest puffed out and smile wide.

"Great job, buddy!  Mind if I try?"

He walks over and waits for Liam to relinquish the bowl, smiling congenially as he finishes the job and offers it to Liam for approval.  The toddler looks it over with a critical eye before nodding and allowing Ian to help him crack eggs and pour vanilla.  "We'll let Mickey-Milk pour the milk, won't we?" he whispers conspiratorially in the boy's ear, kissing his cheek as a laugh bubbles up.

Mickey marvels at how easily kisses are exchanged in this house.

"Mickey-Milk, Mickey-Milk!" Liam chants.  He snaps himself out of it and adds milk to their concoction, trying not to let himself be affected by seeing Ian and Liam's faces pressed right next to each other and giving him the same smile.

Jesus.  How can they look so much alike and only be half-brothers?

He thinks about his own siblings, how there are such varying degrees of similarity going down the line; his two oldest brothers, Tony and Jamie, take almost entirely after his father, big and lumbering, but with Mom's dark hair; Colin and Iggy are a pretty even mix of both parents, one blond and the other dark-haired, smaller than Tony and Jamie but still big enough to be intimidating; and then there’s Mickey and Mandy, both small and slight, with their mother’s blue eyes and dark hair and sad smile.

Ian and Liam’s interaction begins to fade into the background as his mind constructs another face unbidden, one with a long nose and blue eyes and brown hair and a thin face--

 _No_.

More images flash across his mind, and he sees himself having to hold a baby that isn’t Liam, a baby that looks like _her_ and looks at him with his eyes, comfort it the way Liam wanted to comfort him, feed it and bathe it and fucking _play_ with it--

“Mickey?”

Ian’s concerned voice breaks through the onslaught, and he can hear himself panting like a winded rhinoceros.  “Mick, are you alright?”

No.  “I need some air,” he breathes out.  Fuck.

He avoids looking at Liam, still perched on the counter and smiling, as he stomps out the back door.  The frigid air shocks him, and he feels much more alert, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s standing outside in his--or maybe Ian’s--boxers and a t-shirt.  The urge to cover himself is nearly overwhelming, but somehow he knows it’s different from being cold.   _Pull yourself together, man, jesus_ , he berates himself.   _Freakin’ out like some girl_.

The door opens behind him, and this time he doesn’t jump.  Ian steps up to him with a bundle of clothes in his arms, which he gratefully accepts, slipping each article on quickly.  He feels exponentially more comfortable with Ian standing with him--he won’t call it safe, won’t say that Ian being out here with him while he’s calming down is somehow related to the fact that he feels infinitely more secure, can’t say that he wants to hold Ian’s hand or hug him or even just breathe him in. He can’t afford that contact right now, has to keep himself level, can’t drop his guard like Before in the back of the Kash and Grab or in his empty living room.  This isn’t waking up in a cold sweat in Ian’s pitch black room where no one can see him, this is outside, where anyone can walk by and watch him curl in on himself while Ian wraps his arms around him and kisses his forehead.

But he wants it, wants _so badly_ for Ian to crush him into his chest the way he does as they’re falling asleep, wants to smell Ian so he doesn’t have to think about the whore’s spawn and how he’ll have to touch it in a few months.

Ian, thankfully, seems to sense his need, stepping closer to him and bringing a hand up to curl at the back of his neck, lightly scratching at the hairs on the nape of his neck.  Or maybe Ian needs it too, needs to reassure himself that Mickey isn’t hiding away or shutting him out or retreating.

“You good?” he asks quietly, shuffling so close that Mickey can feel the heat radiating off him through both their coats.  God, he wants to bathe in it.

“Yeah,” he croaks.  His hands fumble in his pockets for his carton of smokes, but can’t find his lighter.

“Thought you wanted air,” Ian says softly, producing his own and lighting the cigarette between Mickey’s lips.

“Still breathin’, aren't I?” he snaps, inhaling.  It travels through him quickly, and he can feel himself unwinding.

They stand in silence for a minute, Mickey watching the yard and trying to ignore Ian’s eyes on his face.  “Liam hardly ever talks that much, you know,” he says pensively.

Mickey stiffens.  “That so?”

Ian nods.  “He’s a real quiet kid.  Not like Debbie and Carl when they were little, they were monsters.”

He sighs.  “I don’t wanna talk about it, man,” he says quietly.

“Mickey, come on--”

“Don’t,” he says sharply.  He hears Ian’s breath hitch and works to soften his tone.  “Please, Ian, just...don’t.  Can you drop it for a bit?  I can’t...I don’t--”

Ian steps in front of him, eyes suspiciously wet.  “Okay,” he whispers, gently gripping Mickey’s wrist.  “Okay.”

His tenderness makes Mickey’s eyes burn.  “Fuck,” he mutters, dropping his gaze.  He watches Ian’s thumb rub light circles into the inside of his wrist and feels warmth spread through him, running deeper than the cigarette and thicker than what watching Ian and Liam together had done to him.

A question bubbles up inside him, and he wants Ian to ask it, doesn't want to admit how badly he needs it, but Ian stays quiet.  “Can--Can we go to bed?” he asks shyly, cheeks burning.

He feels stupid for asking and even stupider for wanting to, but Ian doesn't laugh.  Instead, he squeezes Mickey’s wrist once and leads him back inside.

 

* * *

 

They lay in bed for hours, not speaking, hardly even moving, listening to the rest of the Gallaghers shout and laugh.  Everything outside the room is teeming with life, and it feels fitting to Mickey that they be cut off from it.

“Feeling any better?” Ian asks quietly, bringing a hand up to touch Mickey’s face.

Random images still swim through his head, but he leans into Ian’s warmth in spite of them.  “Yeah, I guess.”

Ian smiles a little before reaching to wrap his arms around him, and Mickey folds into the embrace easily; he doesn’t understand why he’s so needy all of a sudden, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind.

“Do you still not want to talk about it?” he asks.

Mickey’s throat constricts, and he doesn’t respond.

He can feel Ian nod from where he’s curled into the younger boy’s chest, and the arms around him tighten slightly.  “I’m sorry you’re hurtin’, baby,” he whispers.

Mickey furrows his brows; baby?  When did that become a thing?  He twists himself around to look at Ian’s face and sees the faraway look in his eyes that he’s come to despise, the one that means Ian’s lost, caught in the grips of something that Mickey can’t fight off for him.

He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.  “You too, man.”

They’re quiet for a moment before Ian speaks again.  “You remember that doctor you wanted me to see?  The one Ned suggested?”

Mickey bites back his knee-jerk response of _Don’t say his name_ and nods against Ian’s chest.

“Well, I, um.  I was thinking,” Ian hedges, unsure.  “I--I’ll go, if you want me to.  If you’re that worried.”

Relief and shock nearly crush him, and he whips his head around to watch Ian stare at the wall, avoiding his gaze.  “But, um.  I want you to go too.”

He freezes.  “What do you mean?” he asks quietly.

Ian gulps.  “You should probably talk to someone, too.  You could go with me.”

Fuck.

Ian looks down at him now, gauging his reaction.  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but--I just thought it might help,” he finishes lamely.

His mouth is dry.  He can barely talk about it with Ian, was choking on his words the entire time he talked to Mandy, and now Ian expects him to cut himself open in front of a complete stranger?

“Just--Just think about it, alright?” Ian urges softly.  He presses a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head and rubs his thumb along the skin above Mickey’s elbow.  “Please?” his voice wavers, his grip on Mickey tightening and his hands shaking.  Mickey can hear what Ian’s really asking, understands what he can’t say.   _I don’t know what’s wrong I don’t know what’s happening to me I’m scared I’m so fucking scared Please don’t leave me all alone I can’t do it without you Stay with me I need you._

And maybe because Mickey’s been thinking the same thing for weeks now--months? years?--he lets whatever resolve he’d built up crumble. “Yeah.  Okay.”  He nods jerkily, trying to control the sudden mad-dash happening in his chest.  “I’ll go with you.”

Ian’s arms tighten even more around him, like he’s trying to compress Mickey until they’re the same person, living as one inside his chest, and he murmurs something incomprehensible into Mickey’s hair.  “What’s that, Mumbles?” he asks, voice wobbling slightly.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still dry.  “I--Nothing, nevermind.”

Mickey feels like he should press the issue, but burrows his face deeper into Ian’s chest instead, listening to the firm sound of his heartbeat echoing all around him.  He can hear what Ian’d whispered there, hear as it’s beaten into his ears and settles over him like another layer of blankets, a barrier between him and whatever waits for him outside of this house.

_I love You I love You I love You I love You._

He wants to give Ian that extra layer of protection, wrap it around him like a cloak he can wear when he leaves the house, but he swallows it down instead, hoping Ian can absorb it through his skin.

_I love You I love You I love You I love You._

Something in the air changes then, and this time Mickey's _sure_ Ian understands, is absolutely positive that this won't be like their first time After, when they'd both been saying and hearing two different things.  No, this time everything is perfectly clear; he can see it in Ian's eyes when he lifts Mickey's head by the chin and stares at him, feels it when Ian leans in to kiss him softly and then retreats to get lube out of a drawer. There's no underlying urgency, no desperation, no clawing at each other's clothes and tearing at each other's skin.  It's more like unwrapping a gift, one so small and precious that you have to make sure peeling back the paper doesn't damage it, one whose meaning and significance can be felt burning in your fingertips while you hold it reverently in the palm of your hand.  Mickey can feel himself coming alive under Ian's hands, feels the value Ian has placed on him with each finger and tries to communicate the same to Ian when he rocks against them.

"Inside," he whispers throatily.  "Fuck, Ian, please."

Ian kisses him again as he pulls his fingers out, slicks himself up and watches with something like awe on his face as Mickey lines up and sinks down onto him.

It's never been this slow before.  They've never had the time to pick each other apart, but they still managed to learn each other's bodies; Ian grazes his nails lightly along the back of Mickey's thighs and the swell of his ass while he drops barely-there kisses along his collarbone, knowing that a shiver will ripple down his spine, and Mickey runs his fingers through the soft curls that have started to spring up on Ian's head, knotting some of the locks between his knuckles and pulling Ian's head back to look at him before pressing a series of kisses along his jawline and throat.  Ian gasps, hands scrambling to grip Mickey's hips as he works himself up and down.

"Fuck, Mick," he breathes.  "God, you're so--how are you real?"

Mickey doesn't know how to respond to the wonder in his voice or the adoration in his eyes, doesn't know what to do with the fluttering in his chest and the pleasure radiating through his body, so he frames Ian's face in his hands to stare at him for a moment before he kisses him, swallowing the younger boy's groan.   _I'm only real because you are._

Ian flips them over, thrusting long and deep with his face pressed into Mickey's shoulder, and he can feel muffled expletives that punctuate them spoken into his skin. He drags Ian's head up to kiss him again, smiling against his mouth as they breathe harshly in each other's faces.  He tries to switch them back, but Ian grabs his wrists and changes the angle of his hips, smirking at Mickey's whimper.

"Ian, oh god,  _Ian_ \--"

He cuts him off with another hungry kiss, sliding his sweaty palms against Mickey's to slot their fingers together.  The contact makes his heart flutter again, and he squeezes Ian's hands firmly.

The pleasure starts cresting, he can feel his orgasm building, and  _god_ he just wants to touch himself, but Ian's still holding his hands. "Fuck,  _fuck,_ Ian--"  He's  _right there_ , right at the precipice, and it's both relieving and terrifying.  "Don't--Fuck, Ian, just--"

He doesn't know how he was going to finish the command, was thinking everything from  _Don't stop_  to _Don't leave_ _me_ to  _Don't let me fall_ , but Ian just whispers "I won't, I won't, god Mick,  _never"_ and he's gone.  The cord in him snaps, and his orgasm pulses through him, shooting onto Ian's lower abdomen.

"Shit,  _Mickey_ \--"  Ian speeds up, but Mickey hardly notices from the cloud he's floating on.  He hears another guttural moan before he feels Ian come inside him, and the sensation makes him whimper again.

Ian collapses on top of him when he finishes, fingers still loosely knotted with Mickey's while they try to catch their breath.  Mickey looks at their joined hands, feels their pulses flutter beside one another on opposite rhythms, wonders how long it'll take before they're synchronized.  "Hey," he says softly.

Ian pushes himself up on trembling arms to look at him.  "What?"

He maneuvers so that he's laying on top of Ian now, wrapped around him like a starfish and still pleasantly full.  Ian seems to sense what he wants, so he pulls the blankets back up around them and settles in, running his fingers through Mickey's sweaty hair and down his back.

Mickey lets out a content sigh and closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep again with Ian's heartbeat in his ears.

_I love You I love You I love You I love You._


	2. It's Over With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for vague descriptions of a panic attack, as well as violence/child abuse toward the end. i don't think it's that graphic, but it might be triggering for some.
> 
> also i'm not too sure about the ending? i like where it is, but i'm not sure if i should wrap up with a third chapter of this part, or pick back up with part 6, so please let me know what you think either way.

Mickey wakes up before Ian the next morning, and he takes a moment to revel in it.  They're spooning, with Ian's fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist.  The sight makes a familiar warmth settle in his chest, and when he sits up he's struck by the way Ian looks with sunlight streaking through his window.  He brings a tentative hand up to brush some of Ian's hair off his forehead, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat, and Ian's words from yesterday echo in his head.   _How are you real?_

Ian snuffles a bit in his sleep, nuzzling into Mickey's hand with a smile on his face.

A stifled giggle from behind him almost makes him retreat, but he recognizes it as Liam's.  He turns to find the boy standing in his crib, grinning at him.  "Jesus, kid," he mutters.  "Why you always up so early?"

"He's a baby," Ian mumbles.  "Babies don't sleep."

Mickey retracts his hand in surprise.  "Were you awake this whole time?"

Ian opens an eye to take in his indignant expression.  "Nope.  I'm still sleeping."

Mickey rolls his eyes.  "Yeah, okay Freckles.  You gonna get your brother or what?"

"Hmm, nope," he replies, voice thick.  "I'm gonna stay right here and sleep."

And he does just that, settling back into the warm spot Mickey left behind and closing his eyes.

Mickey eyes him fondly for a few moments before turning his attention to Liam, who seems to be itching to get out of his crib.  "Alright, hold on," he says, making his way across the room.  When he lifts the boy out of the crib and sets him down, he gives him a little push toward the door.  "Go raise some hell.  Bother your sister, or whatever."

Liam giggles before scampering off, leaving Mickey alone with the still-sleeping Ian and Carl.

Carl seems to be the complete opposite of Ian; he sleeps sprawled everywhere, not confined to a small space and curled in on himself like Ian is; he looks completely peaceful, skin smooth, no furrowed brows or worry lines creasing his forehead; and in his waking hours he's all chaos where Ian was control.  But he doesn't know much about the kid, apart from stories Ian's told him.  Stuff about breaking a kid's leg for dangling Lip out a window or something like that.  Watching him now, he doesn't seem capable of wreaking that kind of havoc, but then again, he'd never thought Ian would have been able to take him in that first fight they'd had Before.

He finds himself wondering about the other kid, Debbie, and then shakes it off.  Fuck's he thinking about all these kids for?

The smell of whatever Fiona's cooking downstairs wafts up to them, and Carl's snores stutter for a few seconds before he blinks his eyes open. "Is that French toast?" he asks hoarsely.

Mickey shrugs.  "The fuck should I know?"

He rolls his eyes before kicking off his sheets and hopping down from his bunk, shuffling down the stairs and asking, "We got any sausage?"

Mickey can't hear the reply and turns back to Ian, leaning down and draping himself over him.  "Hey," he says softly.  "Breakfast's almost ready. I know you're hungry."

Ian groans and pulls the sheet up higher.

"Come on, man, I know you're tired," he sighs.  "But we gotta go eat, and get dressed, and go work a double."

When Ian doesn't move, he huffs out an annoyed breath.  "Fine, you sleep for a little more and I'll shower.  You better be up when I get back," he warns.

He gets back to the room ten minutes later, and Ian still hasn't moved.  He rolls his eyes while he dresses, trying to buy Ian more time to rest but still trying to ensure they got enough to eat before the long day they had ahead of them.

"Come on, man, get up."  Ian tries to twist away from him, gathering blankets around himself tighter.  "I'm not doin' a double shift by myself, asswipe," he bites out, annoyed.  "Now get your ass up, it's time to roll."

Indistinct mumbling comes from beneath the mound of sheets, and he presses closer to hear it.  "What's that, Mumbles?"

"I can't."

Mickey furrows his brows in confusion.  "Can't what, get outta bed?  Sure you can, sleepyface.  I'll help you, come on."

He curls an arm under Ian's body to hoist him up, but Ian rolls away from him.  "Ian, we don't have _time_ for this.  Carl's gonna eat everything before we get down there, and then we'll be late, and then I'll get fired.  So get up."

He waits for Ian to comply, but notices a slight tremor running through the other boy's body.  "What's the matter?  You feelin' sick or something?"

Ian's cries get louder, and he feels a stone settle into his stomach.  "No, hey, none of that," he says softly, rubbing between Ian's shoulders.  "It's okay.  You'll be okay, alright?"

"No I won't," he moans.  "I can't do this, Mick, I  _can't_."

A lump rises to Mickey's throat, and he peels the covers back to wrap himself around Ian.  "Shut up," he whispers, kissing the back of his neck softly.  "Yes you can, you can do anything."

Ian gulps before turning in Mickey's arms to face him.  "I can't be like her," he says quietly, tears shining in his eyes.

"Who?" he asks, wiping Ian's cheek with his thumb.

"Monica.  My mom."

Mickey stays quiet, waiting for Ian to say more.

"Did I ever tell you about her?" he asks.

He remembers Ian showing up on his doorstep, terrified and shaking.  _I need to see you._   "Yeah, once or twice."

Ian is quiet for a moment before continuing.  "She's bipolar," he rasps.  "Always bouncing off the walls or staying in bed.  Or leaving us."

Mickey doesn't know how to respond, so he settles for grabbing Ian's hand and stroking the inside of his wrist with his thumb.  "You don't know...it might not be that," he says quietly.  "When we go to the doctor, we'll find out for sure, okay?"

Ian shakes his head, and a few more tears leak out.  "No, no, I  _can't_ , don't you get it?  I can't be like her.  All she does is hurt us.  I don't want to hurt them, Mickey, please don't let me hurt anybody."

His voice is broken, and Mickey feels his heart shatter with it as the younger boy buries his face in Mickey's chest and sobs, unable to hold back the torrent about his mother.  "She--she let Carl drive a car, and he got in an accident.  She tried to take Liam away and she spent all our money on drugs, and-- _she always leaves!_  She comes back and she says it'll be different, she  _promises,_ and it doesn't mean  _shit!"_

"Ian--"

"I'm supposed to be here, okay?  I'm supposed to be strong and bring in money and watch the kids when Fiona's out, and I have to make dinner and help Debbie with her homework--"

"And you can still do all that, alright?" Mickey interrupts his tirade, lifting Ian's head off his chest to make him look at him.  "No one's saying you can't but you.  We'll get you to a doctor and we'll get it sorted, okay?"

Ian's face is pink and his eyes red.  "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it, dumbass," he says affectionately, wiping Ian's cheeks and running his fingers through his hair.  "We'll call to set up an appointment and we'll get you some help.  You can still be here, okay?  You'll still help Debbie with her homework and cook dinner and all that shit.  I'll make sure of it."

"You will?" he sniffs, and Mickey almost can't look at him anymore, doesn't want to see the desperate look in his eyes underneath all that goddamn hope.

"I swear," he vows.

Ian watches him for a few more moments before nodding and laying back down.  "Please don't let me do anything bad," he whispers brokenly.

Mickey remembers Mandy coming to visit him during his second stint in juvie, telling him that Ian's mom tried to kill herself on Thanksgiving. He'd spent that week expecting Ian to visit, but when he never showed up, he'd figured he was okay.  "Never," he replies, kissing the top of Ian's head.  "I'd never let you do anything bad."

Fiona comes in then, the smile on her face fading when she takes in her despondent brother.  "What's wrong?"

Mickey stays quiet for a moment before answering.  "We need to call that doctor.  Soon.  Today."

"Is he okay?  What--"

"No, he's not fucking okay," he snaps.  He regrets the outburst immediately, dragging a hand over his face and looking at her apologetically.  "Just--Please, you have to call her."

Her eyes linger on Ian laying in Mickey's arms before she nods and backs out, closing the door behind her.

Mickey holds Ian close for a few more minutes before pushing himself into a sitting position.  "We gotta get ready for work, Ian," he says softly, getting off the bed.  "Or would you rather I call us out sick?"  When Ian doesn't respond, he decides to try a different tactic.  "You still wanna bring in money, right?  You wanna do right by them, those kids down there?" he asks, pointing down toward the kitchen.  "Then you gotta get ready for work.  Bet your mom never held a job, right?  She didn't bring home any bacon."

Ian stiffens a bit before shaking his head.  "No."

"Then you're already better than her, aren't you?"  He rolls Ian onto his back and grabs his chin.  "Go take a shower, alright?  I'll put some sausage in a baggie for you, and you can eat it on the way."

He bites his lip and nods.  "Okay."

Mickey steps back to give him the room to stand up and shuffle around for a towel.  He's almost to the bathroom before he turns around and goes back to Mickey, wrapping him in a tight hug.  "Thank you," he whispers hoarsely.

Mickey's eyes start to burn, and he clears his throat.  "No problem.  Now go shower, you sap."

Ian manages to crack a smile, and he considers it a win.

There are more people downstairs than anticipated; Lip is leaning against the sink, having a hushed conversation with Fiona and drinking orange juice.  "Fuck're you doing here?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Lip's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  "I live here, fuck're you doing here?"

"Mickey lives here now too," Carl answers.

"Oh really?  When did that happen?"

"He never really left after he brought Ian home, so maybe about a week ago?" Debbie says.

Lip doesn't respond, keeping his eyes trained unblinkingly on Mickey.  "Uh-huh."

"That's what I was trying to tell you about," Fiona says quietly.  "Ian's...sick."

His demeanor immediately changes, eyes darting away from Mickey to look at Fiona with concern.  "What's wrong with him?"

"We're not sure," she sighs.  Mickey watches the kids watch her intently.  "We've gotta set up an appointment so he can talk to this doctor Ned suggested."

"Ned?  Fuck was he doing with Ned?"

Fiona waves the question off.  "That's not the point, Lip.  He's  _sick_."

The emphasis she places on the word sucks the air out of the room, and he knows that they're all thinking the same thing.

Ian comes downstairs then, hair still damp from his shower, eyes red rimmed and cheeks flushed.  He tries to muster an enthusiastic greeting for his older brother, but it doesn't quite come through.  "What're you doing here?" he asks hoarsely.

"I still live here, jesus," Lip replies, still tense from their conversation.  "Just needed to come home for a bit.  Can only take so much bullshit, you know?"

Ian gives him a twisted smile in response before glancing at the clock.  "We, um, we gotta get to work," he says quietly.  Mickey spoons some sausage links into a sandwich bag while Ian pour them glasses of orange juice to chug down.  "Later."

Mickey thinks he should ask why Ian's avoiding conversation with his family, but he doesn't.  They walk to work in pensive silence.

 

* * *

 

"What's your favorite movie?"

The question seems to catch Ian off guard, and his head snaps to where Mickey's leaning against the candy aisle with a magazine in his hands. "That movie about Pompeii will be out soon," he elaborates, gesturing to his magazine.  "It's got that hot guy in it, the vampire one who was in that gymnastics movie."

"Kellan Lutz?"

"Yeah, that one.  You wanna see it?"

Ian shrugs.  "It'll probably be bad."

"So?  We can throw popcorn at people, then."

This gets Ian to chuckle, and Mickey feels his stomach flutter.   _Finally._  Ian's eyes were still red rimmed from his breakdown a few hours ago, and he hadn't fully realized the affect smiling-laughing-happy-Ian would have on him until he was confronted with mopey-Ian whose face was set in a permanent frown.  "Are...are you asking me on a date?" Ian asks shyly.

Now it's Mickey's turn to shrug, and he's surprised that the idea of going on a date doesn't make his skin crawl.  "Sure.  Why not?"

The bell signalling that the front door of the Kash and Grab has opened jingles, but the two of them keep their eyes on each other until they're forced to interact with the newcomer.

"Hey, Mick!  Long time no see."

Shit.  "Hey, Colin," he replies.

His brother is smiling jovially at him, and he wishes he could be as happy to see him.  "You ain't been at the house in a while," he calls as he walks down the aisles, grabbing random snacks.  "Marriage already going down the tubes?"

He snorts, shifting uncomfortably.  Ian folds his arms across his chest.  "Something like that," he mutters.

Colin doesn't seem to catch it, and continues.  "Well she's been asking about you.  And Dad.  Wanna know when you'll be back.  Oh, sorry I missed your wedding, by the way.  Didn't even know you were gettin' hitched, you fucker."

Ian's eyes widen, and he forces out a laugh.  "It's fine.  I didn't know I was gettin' hitched either."  His palms start to sweat.  "Look, man, I'm not really...That's not an option right now.  Going home."

The snacks are dumped unceremoniously to the counter, and Mickey walks to stand behind it with Ian.  "Why not?  You guys fightin' or something?"

"No, it's--Well yeah, I guess you could say that."

Colin clucks his tongue sympathetically.  "Ah, well, you'll get through it.  Probably just those pregnancy hormones or something, right?"  He laughs, not noticing Mickey and Ian's uncomfortable silence.  "Hey, where you been stayin', anyway?  Kinda miss havin' you around, twerp.  And so does Mandy."

The mention of their sister makes Mickey's shoulders tighten.  "She does?"

Colin interprets his hesitant response as reluctant surprise.  "Well yeah, man.  She's real weird now."

"Weird how?" Ian asks, pausing his ringing-up of Colin's items.

He shrugs.  "Just seems mad all the time.  Well, madder than usual, at least.  Always glaring at Dad.  They're fighting a lot.  And she always looks real sad when she looks at Svetlana."

Mickey flinches at her name.

"Where's your ring?" Colin asks suddenly, gesturing to Mickey's left hand.

In a dumpster.  In a sewer.  On some homeless person's finger.  Up Dad's ass.  "Fuck if I know."

"Come on, Mick," he says sternly.  "Just because things are bad now doesn't mean you gotta throw in the towel."

"Jesus, are you really giving me marriage counselling right now?  Is that what's happening?"

"Well it seems like you need it!  What, you just gonna shack up with some chick while your wife stays at home and pays your bills?"

Mickey rolls his eyes.  "I'm not shacking up with some chick, I'm--"  He cuts himself off, exchanging a look with Ian, who bites his lip and slides closer to him.  He can hear his heart racing in his ears and longs to hold Ian's hand.  "I'm staying with Ian," he finishes, gulping.

Colin's eyes dart between them, like he's trying to work something out.  Ian takes an infinitesimal step forward so that he's slightly in front of Mickey, and the gesture makes him slightly less nauseous.  "Oh.  Staying with him like..." he trails off, gesturing with his hands suggestively.

"Yeah," Mickey croaks.

He takes a moment to ruminate on the new information.  "Huh.  So you're like, bi?"

Mickey's heart stops for a few seconds before starting again, and he furrows his brows in confused surprise.  "What?  No, I'm not bi."

"Pan?"

"Pan--what the fuck is pan?"

"So it's a poly relationship?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Pansexual, polyamorous.  Not ringing a bell?"

"...Should they be?"

"Well you're married to a woman and bangin' a dude on the side, so I figured--"

"Ian's not on the side," he protests.  "And I'm gay."  Holy fuck.

This seems to throw Colin for a loop, and he does a double-take.  "Why are you married to a woman if you're gay?  And how'd you get her pregnant?  That's taking the beard thing a bit far, don't you think?"

"She's not--that isn't--oh my god, nevermind.  Ask Mandy, if you wanna know so bad."

Ian turns to him, surprised.  "You sure?"

Mickey shrugs, trying to ignore the itching under his skin.  "Might as well."

Colin seems confused, but shrugs it off.  "Alright.  Thanks for the grub."  He walks away with his loot and pauses with his hand on the door. "Does he make you happy?" he asks, inclining his head toward Ian.

The question catches Mickey off guard, and he feels a blush rise to his cheeks.  Ian at least has the decency to pretend to be occupied with something else while they wait for him to answer.  "Yeah," he responds quietly.

Colin nods resolutely.  "Good.  I hope it stays that way."  He smiles and gives his little brother a parting wave before finally leaving, and Mickey exhales a huge sigh of relief.

"Oh my god.  Did that just happen?"

Ian grins.  "Yup."

"Oh my god.  That just happened."

"Hey, you okay?  You look a little green."

"That just happened, oh my god."

"Mickey?"

"Fuck.  Oh, fuck me, that just happened."

"Maybe you should sit down..."

"I can't believe--oh god, I'm gonna be sick."

Ian rushes to get him a brown paper bag to breathe into, and his heart pumps wildly.  Holy shit, he'd just--he'd actually just--

"Why the fuck did I do that?" he moans into the bag.  Ian rubs his back and kisses his temple, not saying anything.  "Why--oh my god, I'm going to  _die."_

Ian's hand pauses.  "No you're not," he says quietly.

"Yes I am, fuck."  He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push back the tears burning there.  "They're gonna kill me."

"No one's killing you, Mickey."

"He's gonna tell Dad, and Dad's gonna kill me."

"Hey, he took it pretty well, didn't he?  And Mandy didn't tell anyone, what makes you think Colin will?"

"He's an idiot!" he exclaims.  "Fuck, he doesn't even know how to rob mailboxes right!"

"He knew about that other stuff, though, right?  I didn't know half those words, and he seemed pretty chill about it, didn't he?"

Mickey takes a deep breath, trying to control his ragged breathing.  "The more people who know, the more likely my Dad will find out."

"My family knows, and that's okay, right?"

"Fuck, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna keep fighting all the time, I can't do it anymore--"

Ian cuts his whimpers off with a sharp voice.  "You won't die.  Nothing's gonna happen to you Mickey, okay?  I won't let anything happen to you."

Mickey's hands are shaking, and Ian grabs them gently, still speaking soft assurances into his ear.  "You'll be okay, Mick.  I won't let them hurt you, okay?  I won't let anything bad happen."

After what feels like hours sitting on the floor--and maybe it was, maybe the entire day has gone by, maybe he's been sitting here with Ian for an eternity--Mickey starts to believe him; he twists so he's facing Ian and wraps him in a tight hug, trying to communicate everything he wants to say but can't.  He feels their hearts beat together and surround them with that mantra from yesterday, and it takes everything in him not to break down and cry.

_I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You I love You._

 

* * *

 

Linda sends them home early after seeing the state they were in; eyes glassy, movements sluggish, voices raspy, hands still trembling slightly. But despite this early release, it's dark out when they leave, and Mickey takes advantage of the empty streets and lack of streetlamps to grab Ian's wrist so he can feel his pulse beating with his thumb.

Ian says something, but he can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.  “What?”

Ian smiles and repeats himself.  “You have my heart in your hands,” he says softly, looking down at where Mickey is gripping him.

Mickey can’t speak around the lump in his throat, wouldn’t know what to say anyway--caught between thinking _god that’s so fucking corny_ and _fuck how can he just **say** that? like it’s easy and it’s okay and not goddamn terrifying_ \--so he settles for bringing Ian’s hand up to his face and kissing his palm.  The way Ian’s eyes shine tells him that he understands.

Music is blaring when they get to the Gallagher house, and Mickey rolls his eyes in frustration.  Why the fuck are they partying, jesus christ.

Everyone’s dancing wildly to the bass pounding through the speakers, and he has a headache before Ian closes the front door.  God, can they just _not?_  Even the fucking neighbors are here, what the hell?

“What’s the occasion?” Ian asks, twirling Debbie as she dances up to him.

“Lip had a bad week, Fiona was stressed, so Kev figured we’d cheer them up!”

Her eyes are bright and her skin flushed, and Mickey watches the adults in the room bounce off the walls and laugh, obviously hopped up on something.

Ian catches it too, and grips her arm.  “Did you take something?”

She brushes him off.  “Fiona let me have a sip of her vodka.  And then Kev gave me some of his ‘cause I told him Fiona said it was okay.”

He rolls his eyes at her.  “No more, alright?  I’ll get you some water.”

They walk through the impromptu party to the kitchen, and Mickey’s heart almost stops.

“Liam!” he cries, rushing to where the toddler is sticking his fingers in white powder.

The boy smiles happily at him and holds his arms out to get picked up, and he hears Ian curse behind him as he takes in the mirror and rolled-up dollar bill that had clattered to the floor.

Mickey rushes him to the sink to wash the coke off.  “Did you put any in your mouth?” he demands, watching Ian frantically scrub under his brother’s fingernails. “Did any get in your nose?”

Liam doesn’t seem to understand their fear, and his eyes are wide.  “Liam,” Ian says in a much softer voice, “did you put any of that stuff in your mouth?  Hey, I need you to look at me.”  Liam had ducked down in embarrassment, thinking he was in trouble.  “Just tell me yes or no, okay? Did any get in your mouth or nose?”

He shakes his head, still eyeing them uncertainly.

“Are you sure?  What about your eyes, did you rub your eyes?”

He shakes his head again, biting his lip, and Mickey almost wants to cry.  Ian takes the boy from him and holds him tight to his chest, putting his face on the juncture between his neck and his shoulder and inhaling deeply.

The party in the living room is still raging, and Mickey watches Ian turn to glare out at them.  “Get rid of this shit,” he says darkly.  “I’m putting him to bed.”

Mickey remembers his mother shooing them away from Terry and his poker buddies on Saturday nights, herding all the kids into the room Colin and Iggy shared and reading to them over the din of drunken laughter and broken glass.  He remembers hearing Tony and Jamie whispering to themselves once about a sister, one who came before Colin and was named Emily, who’d been crawling around and found a spoon while their mother was grocery shopping.

An intense wave of disgust washes over him as he watches them dance and laugh and drink, oblivious, and he barely resists the urge to smash the stereo into tiny pieces.

Liam is in his pajamas when he gets upstairs, sitting in Ian’s lap while the older boy reads to him with a hand in his hair, softly petting his curls. He stands in the doorway and watches them, taking in Ian’s gentle voice and letting it soothe the worst of his anger away.

Emily was seven months old.  She would always be seven months old.

He’d asked Jamie about her once, after Mandy had finally learned to walk and started following him around the house.   _“Was my other sister like this?”_  His brother’s face had gotten unusually solemn, and he’d only responded with a vague, _“She was fun to play with.”_

His wife is seven months pregnant.  Something twinges inside him, but he doesn’t know what.  The thing inside her will probably end up going the same way as Emily, one way or another.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

Ian closes the book and kisses the back of Liam’s head, taking him to his crib and laying him down gently.  “Love you,” he whispers.

Mickey doesn’t need to see his face to know that the boy smiles before closing his eyes.

He closes the door firmly, trying to block out the revelry downstairs, and walks across the room to join Ian at Liam’s crib.  Ian’s hands are shaking, mouth drawn into a thin line as he watches his brother drift off to sleep.  “Is it gone?” he asks quietly.

“Flushed it before I came up.”

He nods to himself, letting out a deep sigh.  “As if the rest of us weren’t already fucked up enough,” he mutters.  “And where would they even get coke?  Christ, Carl probably had some too, and Debbie--”

“Hey.”  Mickey cuts him off quietly, reaching for his hand again.  “Don’t think about that, alright?  Just--Let’s just lay down.”

They strip down to their boxers and pull t-shirts on, curling up under Ian’s blankets.  “Think Fiona called the doctor?” Ian asks tiredly.

Mickey’s jaw clenches in annoyance before he answers.  “Better had.”

Ian chuckles at him, but his eyes are still sad.  “Do you want her to call for you, too?”

He’s touched by the gesture, but rolls his eyes.  “I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

Ian smiles indulgently.  “Of course you can.”  His eyes are still downcast, and Mickey waits for him to bring up what’s bothering him.  “How can we afford it?” he asks quietly.  “We’re not making that much, and Fiona doesn’t have insurance ever since she lost the job at the cup place.”

“What about that stash you guys keep in the dishwasher?”

Ian shakes his head.  “That’s for getting us through winter.”

Mickey shrugs.  “Spring’s next month, and you probably have some left over--”

Something crashes downstairs, startling them.  They can hear angry yelling and more crashing, but not over the enraged roar that charges up the stairs, one that Mickey’s heard his entire life, one that stops his heart and makes him hold his breath.

His father bursts through Ian’s bedroom door, a glare more vicious than any he’d ever seen before fixed on them.

"D-Dad."  He can barely choke the word out, unable to think beyond the horror of  _oh god no, please no._

“So this is where you been hidin’ out, huh?” he asks as he advances.  He knows immediately that it must have been Colin, the stupid fucker, probably asked Mandy about it while Terry was still home and could overhear him.  “Shacked up with this faggot?”

Liam starts to cry, and his attention is diverted to the kid when his father grabs him by the collar and slams him onto the floor.  His head smacks against the dresser on the way down, and the room starts spinning.

Terry manages to land a few more punches that make his head ricochet back and forth into the floor before Ian tackles him.  “Get off him!”

Liam is screaming.

Ian is thrown off, and his father pins him to the floor with his knees, grunting insults that are punctuated with hits to the face.

His mouth is dry, pulse pounding. This is too much, too similar, too familiar; he hears another version of himself distantly yelling "Get the fuck off him!", knows that he should probably repeat the phrase now, that he _would_ repeat it if there wasn't cotton in his throat and the air hadn't been sucked out of his lungs. The scene plays out in his head for the thousandth time, and he remembers with perfect clarity, knows that he'll never forget, that it's been permanently burned into his memory. He watches himself attack in his mind's eye and feels his muscles tense to repeat the action, ready to spring, feels his fists clench and longs to swing, but his joints are locked into place and he's frozen.

He's frozen, and Ian is bleeding.

Ian is bleeding.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs again, and he forces himself to scramble up just as Carl appears in the doorway with a feral look on his face, wielding a baseball bat.

A sickening _crack_ echoes through the room as he brings it down on Terry’s head, and he watches his father go down in a slump.  He swings a few more times, hitting the unconscious Terry’s torso, before Lip pulls him away.

Liam’s screams ring in his ears through the eerie silence that has descended upon them.  Debbie crosses the room to get to him, pushing his face into her chest so that he doesn’t have to see Ian when they go back to the doorway.

Oh god, _Ian_.

Fiona and the pregnant neighbor are huddled over him, and he pushes them out of the way to help him sit up.

There’s so much blood, trickling out of his nose and oozing from his mouth.  Bruises are darkening by the second over swollen, puffy skin.

But he still manages to turn to Mickey and rasp, “Are you okay?” with the most tender concern anyone has ever showed him.

This time he doesn’t bother to try and stop it; he buries his head in Ian’s chest, allows himself to be held, and cries.

He can hear sirens outside and a tentative, “Is he dead?” come from Debbie or Kev, but he can’t be bothered to care about the answer, not when Ian’s arms are around him and he can smell him and the steady pounding of _I love You I love You_ flows through him.  He feels something else now, though, something that comes with each exhale onto the side of his neck.

_Safe.  Safe.  Safe.  Safe._


End file.
